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Dottore had always seemed to Pantalone as disturbingly strange. There was something provocative in his gait that the banker noticed even without his glasses; his tired dark eyes followed every movement of the doctor. That cursed mask, hiding his crimson eyes and muffling his hoarse, dehydrated voice. Omega, as Zandik, who had left this world so long ago, had called him. Pantalone sighed at his own thoughts, which had attacked him at such an inappropriate time. Feofan sat down in his usual spot, waiting for his doctor to stop staring thoughtfully at the sheets he had hung on the wall in an order understandable only to him.
Dottore was as open as he was capable of being. He could stand in the darkness of his laboratory corridor for several minutes; the banker had counted out of habit. For some reason, the omega did not move for exactly three minutes and fifteen seconds. What was going on in his overheated brain was a question for the ages. One thing was clear: he was planning something, and certainly not something safe.
"You came," the Doctor stated the obvious. He tilted his head, suddenly, like a bird studying an interesting object before it. "A month later than I recommended. Did you follow my advice and stop consuming tobacco smoke?"
"I was busy." Pantalone crossed his legs, removing his coat and hat. "And, to be honest, I am not free now either. Be so kind, colleague, speed up the process."
"Medicine does not approve of haste." The doctor shook his head in a gesture of disapproval but picked up his instruments. "Let us begin. Take off your shirt, please."
Pantalone undressed, remaining in his trousers. The doctor loomed over him, listening to his heartbeat. His fingers, covered by gloves, barely perceptibly touched his chest, pressing familiarly on points that, over all his visits, Feofan had never studied more closely. He sat straight, like an obedient patient, breathing when the doctor instructed, holding his breath out of inertia.
"At this rate, my dear, I will run out of lungs on you." He shook his head disapprovingly. "Test subjects are not infinite. I recommend finding among your debtors those willing to share their air with you. You have been smoking more often, despite my request to reduce your nicotine intake."
"It is not your place to lecture me, Doctor." The man chuckled. "You yourself look far from healthy."
He narrowed his eyes, noticing a darkening on the exposed area of Dottore's neck, but the Doctor immediately covered the area with his shirt collar. A dangerous experiment or just another project? It was unclear, and ambiguity was what the banker hated most.
"You have lost weight noticeably." Pantalone leaned in, stopping him by the wrist. "You forgot to eat again, I see."
"Tsk." Dottore clicked his tongue but did nothing to move away. "I am your attending physician, which does not obligate me to follow my own advice."
"You are dehydrated." Feofan continued, ignoring the semblance of indignation. "And you are overtired. Not sleeping again, I presume?"
Dottore straightened abruptly and, with an uncharacteristic gentleness, removed the wide palm from his shirt. He turned away, crossing his arms behind his back. His fingers clenched, cracking at the knuckles, and the fabric of his tight gloves rustled with the tension of his stretched hand muscles.
"Regarding the funding." He began a new topic, as if trying to switch to a different line of conversation. "You said the money would be here by evening a week ago. Neither a check nor the money itself, I am afraid, have I received."
It did not sound like an accusation or a snap. Dottore was stating a fact. He needed Mora, and no one had given him any.
"How strange." Pantalone rose from his chair, cracking his shoulders. "I think it is better to ask my assistants about that. The regulations have become stricter; I cannot allocate such large sums openly. Apparently, the administration decided it was an unnecessary expense."
He stepped forward and now stood behind him, trying to glimpse the darkened area of skin which the prudent doctor had so suddenly decided to hide. Feofan did not appreciate this, so Dottore turned around, his lips twisting into something like indignation or offense.
"What are you hiding from me, Doctor?" Pantalone tried to insist, and his fingers hooked the collar with double force. For a man with fragile health, he was surprisingly strong. "Are you ill?"
Dottore hissed, as if pricked by something, and stepped back.
"You should worry about your own condition, businessman." He crossed his arms. "Keep your distance."
"Am I not allowed to worry about someone close to me? Do not be shy. You have seen me shirtless so many times. Show me what you have there. Perhaps I can help." His voice became saccharine, almost teasing, but the note of the question was fierce.
"I do not need your help. Stop touching me. You are making me tense."
"So you are consciously allowing yourself to rot alive?" Pantalone pulled again, and a button tore off, revealing the skin in the area of the doctor's collarbones. Grey, almost black, resembling slush, a substance was slowly rising higher, toward his neck. "What are you planning?"
Usually, the omega did not hide his experiments, no matter how dangerous they might be for him or those around him. This pushed Pantalone toward various assumptions. He tightened his fingers, keeping his hands on Dottore's shoulders to hold him still, and watched with interest and amazement how it looked on the doctor's skin. Lovely, as always. Dottore truly was a discovery.
"This is none of your business." He cleared his throat, as if realizing just how close he was to his face, or rather to the mask. "Nevertheless, you must maintain life in your body. Food and drink have not been cancelled, Doctor."
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, dull and with a lazy rhythm. The handle pushed down, threatening to open, but no one entered, as if unwilling to risk seeing something they would regret later. Pantalone glanced toward the noise, and Dottore was looking at him, frozen in surprise.
"Gentlemen." Arlecchino's voice came through the lacquered wood. "You are being searched for. The meeting is in half an hour. Forgive my intrusive interruption, but you did not respond to the knocking."
"Oh, everything is fine, Lady Arlecchino." Pantalone picked up, hastily throwing on his shirt, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the mask of the silenced Dottore was still staring somewhere toward his chest. "We will arrive on time. Thank you for the notification."
"Good." The woman's voice behind the door softened. "Please do not be late. It is extremely tiresome to listen to the First Harbinger's displeasure."
She left, leaving them alone. Pantalone was putting on his coat when he stopped and, without thinking, draped it over the Doctor's shoulders. Dottore, in confusion, only amusingly shrugged.
"You need to change. This experiment of yours is spreading quite rapidly, and I presume you would not want anyone other than me to find out about it."
"Since when is this your concern?" Dottore inquired, but he did not refuse the coat.
"I need you to live longer. Therefore, your safety and well-being are in my interest. So go. After the meeting, you and I will go eat something. You look exhausted. What do you prefer?"
Expecting a refusal, Pantalone walked out, squinting with satisfaction. Dottore stood there for a while, examining the instruments he was supposed to use for further examination, but he finally decided to listen to the voice of reason in the form of his extremely self-destructive colleague.
"I will trust your choice." He caught up with him, relaxed.